Unsolicited Advice
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: Or, "5 Times Where Kurt Hummel Got His Diva On In Public." Chapter Five: Kurt puts his natural gifts of fabulous taste and public correction to work on a grand scale, and finds himself in need of emergency backup.
1. Chapter 1

Happy weekend, y'all. Lots of thanks to the lovely people who left feedback on _Cohere, Redux_, the epilogue to _Shotgun Wedding_. I'm not adverse to writing more there if people want to read it, so drop me a line and let me know :]

Special tip of the hat to JustRelax for making up half of the conversation that led to two of the upcoming chapters in this series. And a big ole' You Rock to everyone else.

I don't own anything. Someday.

* * *

Chapter One: "You owe the 1980's an apology."

This was, quite literally, the last place on Earth that Kurt Hummel wanted to be. Seriously, there were prison camps in Uganda that would have been more inviting at the moment. At least there, they'd probably shoot him on sight, instead of prolonging the torture and making him suffer.

Tina tugged him along by the sleeve of his jacket, pushing their shopping cart in front of her haphazardly with one hand. He unhappily followed her down the aisle, not caring that his deliberate foot-dragging was reminiscent of a five year old. A five year old with polio.

"Careful," he snapped at Tina as she stumbled a bit, pulling dangerously at one of the decorative buttons on his sleeve. "Just because this fabric is wrinkle-resistant does not mean it's made to stretch. This beauty is hand-stitched."

Rather than snap back at him, Tina blinked sympathetically. "I know this is really hard for you," she said soothingly, "but the faster we find everything, the faster we can get out of here."

Her gentle tone was almost enough to make Kurt cry. He did not want to be here. He did _not _want to be here. He didn't want to throw a tantrum in public because please, how gauche, but damn it, he was unhappy and he could feel an uncomfortable prickling in the back of his throat and an all-too-familiar pressure building in his sinus cavity and—

Kurt sighed.

Miles of cheap sweatshop poly-blend. Horrid florescent lighting. Food sold in packaged quantities that could feed an entire church congregation. An honest-to-Juicy _greeter_ in a blue linen vest at the door.

He hated Walmart.

Tina, clearly sensing his imminent meltdown, let go of his jacket and slipped her hand into his, giving it a comforting squeeze. Letting go of the cart, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket that Kurt recognized as the shopping list they had written earlier that day. Thanks to a well-timed sale—and consequential shopping spree—at the local craft store, the two of them already had nearly everything they needed to construct costumes that would appropriately emulate and pay tribute to Lady Gaga.

Unfortunately, there was only one store in Lima that was guaranteed to have fishing line, Halloween wigs several months out of season, and a dozen silver reflective screens normally only seen in car windshields or in the hands of foolish tween-age sunbathers.

"We're almost done," Tina promised, glancing back and forth between the list and the contents of their shopping cart. "The only thing we still need to find is a pair of white fishnet stockings." Kurt's frown deepened—no doubt aging his skin and contributing to the early development of unsightly wrinkles—and she bit her lip. "Kurt, you really don't look too good," she observed. "Are you sure you don't want to wait in the car? Or, we could go to the fragrance aisle and smell all the shampoos, if you want."

At Kurt's blatantly confused stare, she flushed bright red. "It always makes me feel better when the grocery store is too crowded," she mumbled to her shoes.

Kurt sighed. Tina looked like a kicked puppy. He should really be nicer to her; it was hardly her fault that Walmart made him break out in hives.

He sighed again and reached out, wrapping his arms around his sweet, misguided little friend. "I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely. "I know I'm being overly unpleasant; I blame the $4.99 sandals we just passed."

And he did—those sandals were hideous. And seriously, sandals? It was _March. _In _Ohio._

He forced a smile for Tina's sake, and she smiled back tentatively. "I'll be fine," he assured her. "Let's just get everything and get out of here."

Immediately after Kurt finished his sentence, the loudspeaker above their heads crackled to life. "_Attention Walmart Shoppers: Today is the final day of our sale on Men's Activewear. Buy now and take an additional 30% off, and don't forget to take advantage of our sale on Tyson Chicken Products, now through Sunday in the grocery department!"_

Kurt's skin paled, even as he began sweating. "Can we go smell the shampoo?" he asked in a small voice, swallowing his urge to vomit all over his Galliano shoes. Looking similarly unnerved, Tina nodded.

As they made their way across the superstore, Kurt tried to block out his surroundings. He couldn't see the poorly made clothing, or the horrifyingly tacky gift baskets filled with grainy bath salts that smelled like chalk, or the 2 lb bags of stale, rainbow Twizzlers. No, he was in Belize, sipping a daiquiri—fantasies were calorie-free, thank you very much—and chatting intimately with a gorgeous, shirtless pool boy named Paolo.

Or Raphael. He wasn't picky.

"Oh my—Kurt, look." Kurt was abruptly jarred from his daydream by Tina stopping suddenly and hissing insistently in his ear. Neglecting to reprimand her for damaging his eardrum, he turned to look at the menswear section (a painful eyesore) and spotted the source of her excitement.

Will Schuester was shopping for clothing at a Walmart on a Monday evening.

As Mercedes would say, Aw Hell to the Naw.

Kurt looked quickly at Tina. "Baby, I have to," he implored, giving her the most desperate, pleading puppy-dog look he could muster up with such short notice.

Apparently it was enough: Tina looked down at the floor and sighed. "I'll get the tights," she agreed, with a tone of longsuffering resignation. "Just don't get us thrown out before I can buy everything this time, okay? They still won't let me into CVS after last month, and I'm starting to run out of excuses when my Mom tries to send me there on errands."

Kurt smiled deviously and kissed her cheek. "I make no promises," he said neutrally, making Tina shake her head nervously as she walked away with the cart.

Kurt strode through the Menswear department purposefully, assessing the damage as he wove through the racks. Mr. Schue had a basket containing three plastic-wrapped shirts and a watch, and was currently holding up two ties, frowning back and forth between them.

"Mr. Schuester," he said firmly, making the man start with surprise.

"Hey Kurt," Mr. Schue said amiably, lowering the ties slightly as he smiled. "What are you doing here on a school night?"

Kurt's hands dropped to his hips. "Playing the role of the Fashion Police, apparently," he quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Forgive me for intruding, but you're not seriously intending to buy those, are you?"

Mr. Schue's friendly smile faltered a bit. "Is there something wrong with them?" he asked guardedly, his grip on the fabric tightening almost imperceptibly.

Kurt shook his head. _Men._

"Several things are wrong with them," he pointed out with a near-supercilious air, "but I'll save you several hours and give you the short list. That one," he pointed, indicating the monstrosity in Mr. Schuester's left hand, "is _paisley. _The fact that somebody actually conceived of a paisley tie makes me want to vomit, but that's beside the point. The point being that Vera Bradley is the only acceptable maker of paisley accessories, and even then you really shouldn't try to pull them off unless you're a girl under the age of 9 or over 45."

Mr. Schue was looking vaguely constipated, so Kurt moved on to the other tie. "And that tie is royal purple, bordering on eggplant. I'm sorry, but you're not a Fall. Eggplant is not a color you can expect to wear without considerable effort, and I just don't think you're willing to put in the work." He reached out and gently eased the offending clothing out of his teacher's hands.

Mr. Schue, who had been listening to Kurt in what was doubtlessly a stunned silence, revived at the loss of his ties. "Kurt, I really don't think—"

"Exactly," Kurt stressed, cutting him off. "Pardon my frankness, Mr. Schue, but you're buying clothing from a store that also sells ammunition and 5 gallon jars of mayonnaise. Plus, you're wearing a sweater vest that practically requires a handwritten letter of apology to 1984 for stealing its signature piece. And," he continued, trying to stay calm as he grabbed Mr. Schue's basket off of the atrocious carpet, "you obviously mean to purchase shirts which you've clearly not tried on—a grave shopping error, as well as a rookie mistake. Not to mention the cheap stainless steel watch; do you have any idea what discounted metal does to your skin?"

Kurt dropped the watch carelessly back into the basket and looked pityingly at Mr. Schuester. "I know you're shopping on a teacher's salary," he said kindly. "But you have options. There are so many choices out there that don't involve pastel diagonal stripes. There are people out there, experts, that can help. I just don't want to see you make a choice that you might regret later."

Whatever Mr. Schuester had intended to say to that, Kurt would never know—feeling his phone buzzing in his pocket, he flipped it open to find a text from Tina, telling him to meet her at the register. "Well, I have a costume to make," he said airily. "See you tomorrow, Mr. Schue."

And with that, Kurt turned and strutted out of the department.

And if Mr. Schue never wore that particular sweater vest again, it had nothing to do with the faint strains of Chaka Khan or Lionel Richie he swore he could hear every time he saw it hanging in the closet. Not at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Rainy day = watching movies with subtitles and writing Diva!fits. I think I need more friends.

Thank you for the great response this has been getting so far! I hope you enjoy Brittany's contribution to the madness :]

I don't own Glee. Sadness.

* * *

Chapter Two: "Your LDL is SOL and it's making my brain hurt."

Kurt had only been in the building for two minutes, and he could already feel his meticulously immaculate pores protesting the airborne grease. If he made it out of this excursion without a face full of environmentally-induced acne, it would be nothing short of a miracle.

Beside him, Brittany was squirming. Kurt sighed.

He hated McDonalds.

* * *

They had been driving home from a daylong shopping expedition in Columbus, which had been a total success. Kurt had threatened a group of fourteen year old girls with a mannequin's arm in order to snag the last pair of CofH jeans in his size—and had very nearly been detained by a mall cop, but it had definitely been worth it. Unfortunately, a mere fifteen minutes outside of Lima, Brittany had declared that she needed to pee and no, she couldn't wait until they got home.

There had been a very harrowing thirty seconds after Kurt had told her to 'hold it' where all the possible misconceptions that could arise from that phrase flashed through his brain feverishly. He hastily retracted the statement, fumbling to come up with something more explicit, and stepped hard on the gas pedal. Three minutes later, he was swerving into the parking lot of the first building in sight likely to have a public bathroom.

Much as he hated McDonalds, he hated the thought of walking into a tractor warehouse or adult video store—the only other visible options—with Brittany in tow even more.

Kurt winced as his car screeched to a halt, and mentally apologized to his smoking tires. "Right," he commanded, jumping out of the car and slamming the door, "let's go." Brittany followed suit, and the two of them hurried across the mostly-empty parking lot.

"Kurt, look. They have a playground!" Brittany remarked happily, pointing to the colorful letters on the roof that did, indeed, advertise a play place. "Do you think they have a pool, too?"

For once, Kurt was able to follow Brittany's convoluted logic—Lima's largest park and playground was also home to the community pool. "I don't think so, Britt," he answered kindly. "And anyway, we're just here so you can use the bathroom, not to go swimming."

Brittany didn't seem fazed. "I know that," she chided gently, pulling open the thick glass door. "I just meant in case they don't have a bathroom."

Maybe Kurt hadn't followed Brittany's train of thought as well as he thought he had. _Oh. Oh God, ew._

"Brittany," he said, aiming for patiently benevolent (but setting for somewhat irritated), "I can't believe we're even having this conversation, but you're not supposed to pee in swimming pools. Ever. Sometimes little kids do it by mistake, but you'd get in trouble if you tried it."

Brittany shook her head stubbornly. "No," she protested. "Santana was a lifeguard at the pool last summer, and she told me I should do it since the line for the bathroom was so long. And I didn't get in trouble. Santana even closed the pool three hours early and took me to the movies."

Kurt closed his eyes and counted to ten silently. There were so many things wrong with that story, and he didn't even want to begin to analyze them.

When he opened his eyes, Brittany had already gone down the tiled hall to the restrooms, and was tugging fruitlessly on the handle to the ladies room. "It's locked," she explained neutrally.

Kurt tried the handle himself—it _was _Brittany—and found that it actually was locked. "Come on," he sighed. "Let's go to the counter and get the key."

Five minutes passed, and Kurt and Brittany were still in line. The restaurant wasn't crowded by any means, but sole, pimply teenage boy behind the counter was moving at a snail's pace. The redheaded woman at the front of the line finally got the last of her order and walked past them with her tray full of food, and Kurt held his breath, trying not to gag at the stench.

Brittany bit her lip. "Kurt," she started warily, and he squeezed her hand.

"We're almost there," he promised, cutting her off. "Just one more person, then it's our turn." Brittany nodded, and he nodded back.

He watched the cashier dump a sack of sickly looking, uncooked fries into the vat.

Next time, he'd make sure Brittany went before they got in the car.

Finally, it was their turn at the counter. Before the cashier could start his spiel, Kurt gave him a slightly desperate smile. "She needs the key to the restroom, please," he said as politely as he could. Which was pretty polite, taking into consideration that he'd been breathing discreetly through his mouth since he walked in the door.

Einstein stared at him. "Uh, restrooms are for customers only," he recited dimly.

Kurt sighed. "Look," he said flatly, "we've been in line for nearly ten minutes waiting for the key. She's had 32 ounces of puréed fruit and organic sweetener in the last hour, and I'm not entirely certain she's housebroken."

Brittany interrupted. "What's housebroken? Don't you have a burglar alarm?" she asked.

Kurt ignored her. "Can you please just let her have the key before she pees on your floor like an incontinent puppy?" he asked.

Brittany brightened visibly. "Oh, puppies. I thought you were talking about houses." She smiled fuzzily at the cashier. "My sister's favorite game is pretending we're puppies. I'm trained, though: I can pee on a fire hydrant and I don't bite Kurt when he comes over. Can I use your bathroom now?"

Kurt had never seen a human being move so fast. In less than four seconds, Brittany had been handed the oversized wooden keychain, and she was walking leisurely back toward the hallway bathroom.

Seeing the frozen, terrified expression on the cashier's face, Kurt softened a bit. He could have been a little nicer. This was probably the boy's first job. And he remembered being fourteen, intimidated by random cheerleaders and plagued with bad skin.

"I'm sorry about that…" Kurt squinted at the name tag, "Michael. It's not you, it's us." He smiled reassuringly. "She really had to pee, and I get a little emotionally volatile and verbally abusive around giant vats of grease. It's nothing you did, and I apologize if we were a little rude."

Michael still looked wary. Kurt sighed and pulled out his wallet. "I'll take a small Diet Coke please."

Brittany chose that moment to come bounding down the hall and back over to Kurt, swinging the bathroom key wildly like it was one of her pompoms. "Kurt!" she called out. "They have My Little Pony toys! Can we get one?" She pointed to the display case, which was showcasing four different miniature horses. They were faded and dingy—and had probably been there since the early '90's—but Brittany didn't seem to notice or care. And her eyes were so shiny and hopeful that Kurt had to smile.

He turned back to Michael. "Make that a small Diet Coke and a My Little Pony Happy Meal—hamburger, with apple slices and a chocolate milk. You need your calcium, and fried chicken parts are _so _bad for your complexion," he lectured Brittany, who nodded solemnly.

Watching Michael put together their order, Kurt thought for a moment that it would all be okay. They'd get out of McDonald's, he'd get an extra facial to counteract all the toxic exposure he'd received over the past fifteen minutes, and Brittany would get her toy. His car would smell like hamburger, but nothing a thorough vacuuming and some carpet shampoo couldn't fix.

And then, he heard the stifled laughter.

He looked around for the source, and spotted a middle-aged couple at a nearby table eyeing Brittany derisively. Brittany either hadn't heard them or hadn't put two and two together, and Kurt narrowed his eyes.

Oh. Hell. No.

"Britt," he said evenly, not taking his eyes off of the woman, "why don't you go clear a spot for your Pony in the car? You can move some of the bags to the trunk."

Knowing Brittany as well as he did, Kurt could practically feel her brow wrinkling in confusion, even if he couldn't see it.

"Can't he ride on my lap?" she asked innocently, and Kurt shook his head.

"It's the law," he told her, "children and ponies under the age of fourteen have to sit in the backseat and wear a seatbelt." He held out the keys to Brittany, who took them and started for the door. "Don't turn the car on!" he called after her, and waited until she was out of sight before approaching the offending table.

Hands on his hips and prissiest glare in place, Kurt raised an eyebrow at the couple. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, tone laced with annoyance.

Though the woman was clearly surprised, she awkwardly held her ground. "Isn't your friend a little old for a Happy Meal?" she asked him.

Kurt smiled evilly.

"What Brittany chooses to eat is her business, not yours. Happy Meals are smaller portions of restaurant food and, while disgusting and over-processed, contain an appropriate number of calories for a teenager's meal. Especially since she'll inevitably drop the burger before she finishes it."

He shuddered involuntarily, and made a mental note to steam-clean the floor mats as soon as he got home.

Turning back to his target, he tried on a vicious scowl, size medium. "You, on the other hand, have selected a ten-piece order of nuggets and a large order of fries, and what looks to be a medium soda. I'm going to assume that the purple blotch on your shirt means it's a grape soda," he added, voice poisonously sweet. "In that one meal alone, you're consuming about 1,275 calories, well over 1,000 mg of sodium, and at least 35 grams of fat, most of which is probably saturated or trans fat. If you haven't cracked open a newspaper in the last ten years, trans fat is the kind that increases your risk of having a heart attack, a stroke, and diabetes, among other horrible afflictions."

The woman's mouth dropped open to protest, but Kurt was on a roll. "As for the calories," he continued, "the government only recommends about 2,000 calories a day for the average woman, but you're on the short side, so I'm going to slash you down to about 1,800. Which means that your tray has just made up about two-thirds of your daily intake. And sir," Kurt turned his attention to the man sitting across from his original victim, who was looking bewildered at Kurt's lecture. "You have a McFlurry _and _a supersized meal. Do you realize the damage that you're doing to your arterial walls? Raised cholesterol, elevated blood pressure, blood sugar spikes—"

Kurt shook his head in frustration. Then realized that everyone in the room was staring at him.

Kurt glared around the room. Not one of the twelve people seated at the tables had a healthy meal in front of them. "Heart disease is no laughing matter, people," he scolded loudly. "Obesity, unhealthy diets, and a sedentary lifestyle are three of the biggest drains on our nation's health care. Do your research! And for Gucci's sake, we live in farm country—would it kill you to eat your vegetables?"

Extremely irritated, Kurt huffed with annoyance and turned back to the counter. Michael was standing stock still, holding his Diet Coke and Brittany's Happy Meal. Smiling grimly, Kurt snatched them away and stalked out the door.

Ten seconds later, he was back. Grabbing a straw and some extra napkins, he slammed a small bottle on the counter in front of Michael. "Rinse twice a day with this, and consider making an appointment with a dermatologist if your skin doesn't clear up in the next few weeks," he advised. "Accutane can work wonders."

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

A/N: So, this chapter. Not meant to target people of any shape or size, make any unfair assumptions, or criticize any lifestyle choices. I'm just a schmuck with a computer.


	3. Chapter 3

So this took ages, even though it's been written in my brain for days. Oops. Also—sister's birthday = ice cream. I am so, so horribly ill and repentant.

Thank you for all the positive feedback, it makes me happy that this makes you happy :]

I don't own Glee, but my own birthday is in less than 2 weeks, so perhaps if I order it now…

* * *

Chapter 3: "Your stupidity may result in redness and swelling."

Looking around the room, Kurt actually felt a slight twinge of regret. This place had so much potential—sweaty, good looking men in various states of undress, a sauna, a television mounted in the corner that was tuned to Bravo…yeah, he could get used to this part.

A very familiar voice interrupted his musings. "Hey, Kurt? Are you almost ready? We've been in here for kind of a while." Kurt sighed and closed the locker he'd chosen, clipping his padlock on the door before following Finn out of the room. And swallowed the immediate urge to turn around and dart back into the locker room.

Miles of metal equipment that vaguely resembled Medieval torture devices. A horrible choking stench that was somehow equal parts Gatorade, imitation eucalyptus, and body odor. People in spandex. Dear God, the people in spandex. Kurt sighed.

He hated the gym.

* * *

It was all his Dad's fault. All four members of the Hummel-Hudson clan had gathered around the breakfast table that morning—a rare occurrence, given everyone's conflicting weekday schedules. Carole had made pancakes for everyone else, but had thoughtfully halved a grapefruit and put a couple of eggs on to boil for Kurt before he had come upstairs, earning the sweetest smile the boy was capable of before 8am.

Or the biggest smile he'd allow himself before his liquid foundation was fully set. They were the same thing, really.

In any case, it was his father, already on his third cup of coffee, who had asked Finn what his plans were for the day. Finn had swallowed an insanely large bite of pancake—Kurt, after eating several meals with his almost-stepbrother, was halfway convinced that he was capable of unhinging his jaw to fit in larger amounts of food, just like a snake—before mentioning that he was planning on going to the gym for a couple of hours after breakfast.

"Football training starts in a few weeks," he had explained, "and the first couple days really suck if you've gotten out of shape."

Burt had nodded knowingly, and the subject might have been over with entirely if Finn hadn't asked if anyone was available to give him a ride while he and Kurt were clearing the dishes. Burt looked pointedly at Kurt, the only one in the house with both a vehicle and the day off, and Kurt rolled his eyes in response.

"I can drive you," he agreed, turning to Finn. "Where is it?"

Finn had smiled amicably. "Just the Lima Sports Club, in the plaza behind the grocery store," he explained. "It's kind of crappy, but they have some sort of deal with school so that student athletes get really cheap memberships. And there are usually Cheerios around before Coach Sylvester starts her Crazy Camp at the end of July, since they get free memberships."

Okay, on second thought, maybe it was Finn's fault.

Burt had perked up at that. "Free for Cheerios, huh? Maybe you should check it out, Kurt. Pump a little iron before all your practices start."

Kurt shuddered openly. "Between Sylvester and Tanaka, I'm going to be sweating on a field for six hours a day for an entire month," he complained. "Why would I want to get started on that early?"

Burt waved his hand dismissively. "Come on, it'll be good for you," he encouraged. "And you'll already be there anyway; that way you won't have to drive all the way back just to pick Finn up."

Finn seemed agreeable to the idea, and Carole had been pleased about her two favorite boys spending some time together, so really, Kurt had no choice. Half an hour later, he was lugging an enormous duffel bag out to the car, where Finn was already waiting.

Finn frowned and grabbed the bag as Kurt stumbled over a rock. "Whoa, you okay?" he asked, his forehead scrunching up in concern. "What's even in here?"

Kurt sighed, unlocking the trunk so that Finn could load up their bags. "My gym clothes," he answered, "and a couple of towels. And my own shampoo and conditioner, and a hair dryer and a bottle of moisturizer, and some disinfectant, and deodorant, and a pair of sneakers, and my iPod and some magazines."

Finn's confused look was adorable. "I really don't think you're going to need all of that," he said slowly.

Kurt simply looked at him, and Finn sighed. "Here, why don't you put some of it in my bag," he offered. "Yours looks a little too heavy." He unzipped his duffel bag, revealing nothing but a towel and a set of gym clothes.

And a giant, sticky-looking red patch on the bottom. "I spilled some Powerade in it a couple weeks ago," he admitted, blushing slightly, "but it should be okay."

Kurt shuddered again. "I think I'll be fine," he declined delicately, "but thank you." Finn still looked a little worried, so Kurt smiled reassuringly as he closed the trunk. "If you want, you can carry my bag, and I'll carry yours—that way, I won't strain a muscle in my shoulder, but it won't look weird," he suggested.

Finn brightened. "Okay, cool," he agreed breezily, and climbed into the Navigator.

* * *

The drive over was short, and the girl at the front desk had been nice enough—Finn and Kurt had given her their Student IDs, and she'd swiped them in and directed them both to the men's locker room. The locker room itself had been way nicer than Kurt had expected, better than the one the football players used for certain (although not as nice as the one Coach Sylvester had commandeered and had made over by a task force of illegal immigrants for the Cheerios to use).

Now that he was actually in the gym, however, this trip seemed more and more like a terrible idea. He really should have held his ground and gone to Macy's instead.

Finn, who had changed quickly and was probably glad to be out of the locker room, clapped him on the shoulder. "Right," he began. "So, uh, I was going to do some machines and free weights in the weight room. Put on a little more muscle in my shoulders. Did—did you want to come?"

Kurt pursed his lips disapprovingly. "My entire wardrobe is tailored to fit my frame," he informed Finn. "More than a pound or two in either direction and I have to get everything resized."

Finn looked at him blankly, eyebrows raised, and Kurt resisted the urge to pull his hair in frustration—no need to needlessly damage the roots. "No thank you," he said, and Finn nodded.

"Okay," Finn tried again, "how about cardio then? You could run on the treadmill."

The look on Kurt's face seemed to express what he thought of that idea, because Finn immediately began backpedalling. "Or not," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "I don't know, what do you want to do?" he asked with a sigh, glancing back toward the weight room.

Kurt stared critically at the machines, weighing the pros and cons of each form of torture. Ahem. Exercise. "The elliptical," he decided finally. "It's not that challenging. Just because microfiber material wicks sweat doesn't mean I should have to force it to."

Finn stared at Kurt's shirt. "Uh, right. Okay, so, I'll just be in the weight room then," he said slowly. "Have fun."

Kurt tried not to snort—it was a really unattractive habit.

The gym wasn't all that crowded—Kurt _couldn't_ _imagine_ why not—and only a few of the dozen ellipticals were already in use. With a resigned grimace, he climbed gingerly on the machine and pressed a big green button, using the keypad to enter information when prompted.

And if he leaned forward to cover the buttons when entering his weight, well, that was nobody else's business.

Finally, the digital clock on the machine began counting down from a half an hour in bright red letters. Kurt pedaled at an easy pace, looking around the gym. Apparently, this building was where terrible outfits went to die. (He made a mental note to call Mercedes and tell her that The Dress Barn was officially bumped down to the #2 spot on their list.) Unfortunately, the worst fashion offenders were almost universally larger and more muscular than him, and Kurt knew better than to willingly approach meatheads and make disparaging comments about their gym apparel, even if he meant it as constructive criticism. Regretfully, Kurt preemptively ended that pursuit and looked for something else to amuse himself with.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Kurt was feeling pretty good. The elliptical was boring, but he was barely sweating, and the tv in front of him was showing a rerun of What Not to Wear, always a welcome choice. But just as he was leaning forward on the handles of his machine, eagerly watching Clinton tear some animal-print-wearing housewife a new one on 5th Avenue, the channel suddenly switched over to FOX News.

"Hey!" he cried out reflexively, earning stares from everyone in the room who wasn't wearing an iPod. He looked around and saw a trainer holding a remote control, staring at the television.

"Excuse me," Kurt huffed, stepping off of his machine without hitting the pause button and crossing over to the trainer. "I was watching that. Can you please change it back?"

The trainer, a burly looking man in his 30's, looked down at Kurt. "Time for the 11:30 news," he said brusquely. "I'll change it back at noon."

Kurt glared at him. "The show will be over at noon," he pointed out, "and the news is on 24 hours a day. I'm only on the machine for ten more minutes, can you just leave it until then?"

The trainer shook his head. "Sorry kid," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry. "Why don't you watch on one of the other TVs?"

Kurt was starting to get seriously annoyed. "Why don't _you _watch on one of the other TVs, Glenn?" he shot back, glancing at the nametag that was level with his face. "I was already watching, and I'm a customer of sorts."

Glenn narrowed his eyes nastily. "Look fruitcake, this is my gym. My gym, my rules. Got it?" He smirked unpleasantly at Kurt, before turning back to the television.

_Fruitcake_. So that's what this confrontation was really about. Of course.

Kurt smiled viciously.

"Well then, Glenn, if this is your gym, I have a few things I'd like to bring to your attention," he began, voice falsely sweet. "For starters, the violation of several health codes." Glenn's smile faltered slightly as he looked down at Kurt, who pretended not to notice. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but your cleaning supplies are woefully inadequate. You've provided two bottles of cleaner and four rags for people to wipe down their machines with—for starters, that's a 1:12 rag-to-machine ratio. And for another, if my sense of smell is accurate—and trust me, it's accurate—the so-called 'cleaning solution' you've provided is a mix of bargain store dishsoap and water. That isn't sufficient to kill the majority of viruses potentially lurking on the equipment, and is the reason that public gyms are literal hotbeds for the staph infection. Not to mention the fact that half the people here don't bother cleaning their machines or spraying the rags, so everything is probably coated in half a dozen people's sweat by the end of the day anyway."

Kurt smiled on the inside as Glenn started shooting panicky looks around the gym. People were starting to stare, and his last comment had prompted several people to jerk their hands off of their machines.

Kurt loved an audience. He raised his voice just a little more.

"But since this is your gym, I'm sure you'll see to the problem personally," he commented, eyes wide and sparkling with false emotion. "And while you're at it," he added, "perhaps you can do something about some of the items for sale in that little pro shop you've set up behind the reception desk."

Kurt pointed toward the front of the gym, and was gratified to see several heads, Glenn's included, following his hand.

"You see Glenn," he said conspiratorially, "I happen to know that your yoga mats are the same ones sold at Walmart, and you've marked them up 50%. I know," he added, shaking his head sympathetically at Glenn's horrified look, "crazy that someone would remember something like that, right? I tried to block it out, but every detail of my last trip there is unfortunately seared into my memory. But that's not the worst part. Did you know that the company who produces the workout clothes you're selling—also massively overpriced, by the way—just recently came under fire for using sweatshop labor in third world countries?" Kurt laughed self deprecatingly. "What am I even saying, of course you know that—you watch the news!"

Glenn was starting to look a little sick. Kurt carefully constructed a look of concern. "Glenn, you're not looking too good. Maybe you should sit down and have some water," he advised. "I should tell you, though, that the water in your locker rooms has a dangerously high quantity of sulfur in it—nothing that will hurt you, of course, but it does smell unpleasantly of rotten eggs. But since it's your gym, I'm sure you'll do the right thing and get the filters replaced immediately. You could drink some bottled water instead; I noticed the pro shop selling some vitamin water. And zero calories! I'm a little wary about trusting the label though," he admitted, "since it also claims to provide the drinker with vitamins A, D, and K among others, and that's impossible—a zero calorie beverage is consequently fat free, meaning that the drinker couldn't possibly absorb fat soluble vitamins. But you know that, you're a trainer! Tell me, is your certification nationally accredited, or is it one of those in-house certifications that any moron who can't pass their GED can get in a five hour stint?"

By this time, Glenn looked shell-shocked and speechless, and the majority of the onlookers in the room were glaring at him with disapproval. Never one to overstay his welcome, Kurt glanced at the clock on the wall. "Will you look at the time," he said breezily, "I have to get going."

Reaching out, he gently plucked the remote from Glenn's hand and switched it back to What Not to Wear. "Here," he said kindly, "watch this. The uniforms at this place are atrocious, and not in any way form-flattering. Stacy and Clinton should be able to provide you with some tips and inspiration."

Patting Glenn on the shoulder, he smiled at the gathered crowd and headed toward the weight room to collect Finn.

Right before reaching the doorway, though, he turned around. "Perhaps you might want to only listen to Stacy, though," he conceded. "Clinton is kind of a fruitcake, and you've made it clear how you feel about that. On the other hand, he's got a fabulous career, a master's degree, and a $500,000 house, and you're making $28,000 a year correcting people's squat thrusts. Maybe you should be taking advice from him after all."

And with a toss of his hair, Kurt sauntered out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello again! I wanted to have this up a couple days ago, but excessive work + being sick = delays in all areas of life. However—next Monday is my birthday, and I'm planning on having the final installment of Diva!Kurt up by then as my present to all of you. Go go Gadget Timeline.

Also, this chapter? Probably the most offensive one yet. Ye Be Warned.

I don't own much of anything, but my fingers are crossed.

* * *

Chapter 4: "This shopping trip is why I plan on eating my young."

Even though they had made the trip on a Monday afternoon—Santana had insisted on it, since "Monday is the lamest day of the week; I have cooler things to do with the rest of my time than hang out with you"—the parking lot was still surprisingly full. Kurt couldn't help shudder as he followed Santana (who was stalking, fists clenched, a few feet ahead of him) through the automatic doors. He hadn't been here in about nine years, and that was before his common sense, developed aesthetics, and dignity had really come into their own. So this trip? Probably a personal low.

Colors bright enough to make a blind man cringe. Screaming, sticky-fingered children with their stroller-pushing, Xanax-popping mothers. The smell of soiled diapers and apple juice permeating the air. Horrible pop hits from Disney stars warbling over the sound system. Kurt sighed.

He hated Toys-R-Us.

* * *

It had all started on Thursday. Santana had approached him at lunch, chomping violently on her gum as if it had insulted her mother. Or worse, her shoes. She had coolly informed him that Brittany's birthday was on the 17th, a little over a week from then.

"She saw some stupid Olsen Twins movie about a surprise party last week, and now she won't shut up about it," she explained, sounding harassed. "Normally, I'd just force Puck and Quinn to do everything I don't have time for, but if Quinn cries in my car one more time, I swear to God I'm going to stick my hand up her unwaxed vag and yank that baby out myself. And Puck's kind of on my shit list right now. Plus, Britt thinks you're like, God's Gay Gift to Mankind lately, and I have to hear about it every five seconds."

She grimaced, before turning an icy smile on Kurt, who shuddered appropriately. "So you should probably make it up to me and help pay for shit, since I'm probably going to snap and kill you otherwise," she finished.

After throwing up in his mouth a little at the thought of Quinn's lower half, Kurt agreed to help.

Santana was not Kurt's favorite person by a long shot, but she certainly wasn't his least favorite either. Maybe it was the Cheerios connection, or their mutual dislike of Rachel, or perhaps even their similar baseline levels of bitchiness. Whatever it was, Kurt could handle her company for a little over a week. Especially if it meant planning and designing an event.

The irony of planning a surprise party for a girl who was routinely surprised by the cream filling in her Twinkies ("I thought it was just cake", she would explain, starry-eyed, to her incredulous audience) was not lost on Kurt. His suggestion that they let Brittany help plan the party and just stop talking about it two days beforehand—Britt could forget anything in 48 hours—was not taken kindly by Santana. She had narrowed her eyes and sneered that she'd "tell you where to shove that idea, Fairy, but I wouldn't want you to enjoy it too much."

So, after some serious DIY therapy to thoroughly rid his brain of any and all images of himself and Santana that that statement had spawned (the ones involving whips and chains were particularly scarring), Kurt found himself standing in the shadow of a giant, blow-up giraffe, doing his best not to blow chunks or run away.

_Brittany_, he reminded himself, _it's for Brittany. She deserves a fabulous soiree, and she probably wouldn't appreciate it if I smashed Santana's head in with a tricycle for making me come here._

The blow would be from behind, of course. Even if they were well matched verbally, only the element of surprise would give him any hope of winning if their perpetually simmering catfight turned physical.

Kurt wiped down the handle of a shopping cart with a moist towelette before pulling it out of the row and pushing it in front of him. Normally he wouldn't have bothered, but there were _children _here. And Kurt was not particularly fond of children.

Santana seemed to share his sentiment. "Shouldn't they be in school or daycare or something?" she groused, crossing her arms and looking around the store in disgust. "Seriously. I'm going to get scabies or poison ivy just being in the same room with this many puke-monsters."

Kurt couldn't bring himself to disagree. "This place definitely needs online delivery," he commiserated, eyeing an especially annoying-looking little boy as he tugged impatiently on his dad's sleeve.

Santana scoffed. "You think I didn't try?" she asked darkly. "Apparently, all of the Spongebob party supplies are 'out of stock' online. Morons can't even keep track of a freaking warehouse."

Kurt stared at her, slightly panicked. "Spongebob?" he asked, wincing a bit at the incredibly girlish sound of his own screech. "We're doing a _Spongebob_ theme? How am I supposed to coordinate the color scheme with the refreshment trays when half of the decorations are _neon_?"

Above all else, even seersucker pants on adolescents, Kurt hated neon.

Santana scowled. "Deal with it, Rickie Vasquez," she snapped. "Brittany's obsessed with Spongebob. And you aren't the one who's had to sneak into her house every week for the last two and a half years to replace the pineapple in her _fish tank_. Do you know how much those fuckers cost in January?"

* * *

After consulting the color wheel he kept in his bag—compatibility emergencies could happen anywhere—Kurt grudgingly agreed that a pink/yellow/aqua palette wouldn't clash _too _horribly with the stack of Spongebob plates Santana had thrust at him. He did insist, however, that they purchase normal, solid-color plates and napkins in addition to the Spongebob ones, and absolutely refused to buy the Squidward cups—not even he could make that level of atrocity blend with the décor.

Mutually agreeing that the trip needed to be as short as possible to minimize the risk of catching some infectious disease or inadvertently traumatizing some small child, Santana and Kurt power walked down the aisles with an intensity that would have made Coach Sylvester proud. Their cart filled up quickly: tablecloths, plates, plastic cutlery, cups, centerpieces, balloons, ribbons, streamers, bags of candy. The only thing they still needed was—

"A piñata," Santana ordered. "Nothing that's shaped like an animal or has a face. She'll freak out and turn herself into the police for murder again." Kurt (deciding he'd really rather not know) examined the rather sparse display of piñatas on the shelf, most of which were, in fact, animal shaped.

"There!" Santana declared triumphantly. "Get the wizard hat, it's the only one left." Kurt, who was closer, strode over and grabbed the piñata.

Approximately 2.4 seconds before another set of hands grabbed it.

Kurt suppressed his instinct to go for the throat (when competitive shopping was officially declared a martial art, he was testing for his black belt immediately) and instead tightened his grip on the purple paper mache and stared down his opponent, a heavyset thirty-something woman in a garishly pastel Lane Bryant ensemble. Her hair was bluntly cut at the chin, and her face was pink and panicked.

"Excuse me, can I please have this?" she asked desperately, clutching the piñata. "My son's birthday in on Sunday."

Kurt wavered. On the one hand, letting the woman have the piñata would prolong their trip and certainly piss Santana off, not to mention that he was under no obligation to give it to her since he'd grabbed the wizard hat first. On the other hand, the woman was throwing a party for an actual child, which should probably take precedence over their party for Brittany.

Kurt sighed, deciding to give in. He was such a humanitarian some days, it hurt.

He had forgotten to factor Santana into the equation, however. Right as he was about to slacken his dent-inducing hold on the piñata, he felt her well-manicured nails dig into his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she answered in her most polite voice, which still somehow managed to sound like a sneer, "but we're throwing a party this weekend too, and this is the only piñata that'll work. So if you'll excuse us."

And with a victorious smirk, she yanked the wizard hat from both Kurt and the woman and strutted back to the cart. "Let's go, Kurt," she commanded. Flashing an apologetic smile at the woman, Kurt followed suit.

That could have been the end of it. Kurt would have felt slightly bad, but likely would have forgotten about the incident by the end of the day.

Unfortunately, the woman clearly hadn't realized who she was dealing with. And she wasn't finished yet.

"Look, I need that piñata," she insisted. "We're doing a Harry Potter theme, and I have nineteen eight year olds coming to my house in less than a week."

Santana raised an eyebrow, clearly unmoved, and Kurt knew he'd have to take it upon himself to be the gracious one of the two of them. "There's an owl piñata," he pointed out helpfully. "It actually looks quite a bit like Hedwig. If you squint."

The woman stared at him incredulously. "You want me to get a piñata that looks like a Harry Potter character so that the kids can _beat it with sticks_?" she shrieked—unnecessarily shrilly, in Kurt's opinion. "Are you some kind of moron?" She sighed, briefly putting her hands to her temples before further rumpling her chemically damaged hair. "Fine. Forget it. Enjoy your party; I'm sure all the underage drinking and juvenile delinquency will be a blast."

Kurt looked at her, standing 5'2" in her puce colored shoes and righteous indignation. Moron with a penchant for juvenile delinquency and cheap keg beer?

Oh no she didn't.

Kurt turned to Santana, whose malicious expression indicated that she was entirely on the same page. "Do you want to start, or should I?" she asked sweetly, and Kurt bowed in a mock display of submission.

"Oh please, ladies first," he offered dryly. "I'm too distracted by the outfit to know where to begin—it looks like a K-Mart candy clearance rack the week after Easter."

Santana fixed her gaze on the woman. "All right then. Listen up, Blue Light Special. Shoving a kid out your vagina does not make you special—it makes you wide hipped. Having kids doesn't magically entitle you to shit. We got the piñata first. Deal with it."

Kurt smiled. "She's right," he confirmed. "Insulting complete strangers for no other reason than they have something you want is incredibly crass and childish, and I'm sure not the behavior you'd want to model for your soon-to-be eight year old. And the name-calling is entirely out of order, particularly because your insults have nothing to do with who we are and everything to do with the fact that we're teenagers. We at least did you the courtesy of judging you by your split ends, bargain bin apparel, and unattractive personality."

"Whatever," Santana interjected, "she's just jealous that she's about fifteen years past her prime, and couldn't look this smokin' hot if she tried."

All three of them glanced down at Santana's smokin' hot thighs, on prominent display in her Cheerio's skirt.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Additionally, you said it yourself—you're intentionally purchasing an object for children to maim to a pulp with a stick. Now, people our age," he gestured to himself and Santana, "know the difference between pretend violence and actually inflicting hurt. But elementary school kids are young and impressionable, and are already being bombarded with confusing mixed messages from the media. The APA has proven the link between exposure to portrayals of violence and increased aggressive behavior in children, particularly in those under the age of eight, who have difficulty differentiating between entertainment and reality. And here you are, handing them a weapon and encouraging them to go at it." He shook his head in dismay. "Not only are you starving the prefrontal cortex of your son, but you're practically creating a future generation of bullies."

He glared meaningfully at her. "You probably feed them refined sugar, don't you?"

Santana didn't give the woman, who was now gasping unattractively like a fish, a chance to respond. "Please, what do you expect?" she disparaged "She's raising her kid in Lima. She couldn't make it out of here on brains or talent, what makes you think she's fit to raise anything other than another set of Lima losers? Oh, don't look at me like that," she snapped, as the woman's cheeks turned a splotchy purple. "You know it's true."

Softening slightly, Kurt glanced at Santana before addressing the woman. "Here's some free advice," he offered kindly. "Try being nicer to people. Even Spawn of the Devil teenagers like us are perfectly harmless if you aren't deliberately antagonistic. Throwing a tantrum over a piñata is immature and sets a bad example. You're the parent—act like it."

Turning to Santana, he threaded his arm through hers. "I think we're done here," he announced.

Shooting the woman a withering smile, Santana waved sarcastically and turned their cart around, heading for the cash register, leaving their opponent in shocked silence.

Just as they were about to turn the corner, Kurt turned back around. "There's a Land's End outlet about two miles east of here," he called back. "It's not to my taste, personally, but the staff there is very good; they could help you put together a great new look on a budget. You won't regret it, I promise."

And with that, they were gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Good news and bad news: It is my birthday and there is a new chapter, just like I promised! But I'm getting old, and this is the final installment of Diva!Kurt. I'd make some joke about babies and bathwater, but it's entirely possible the memory fog of age is already setting in. Because this is the final chapter, it's a little different than the first four: there's less yelling at strangers involved, but an extra helping of sass to make up for it. We'll see how it goes.

I'm normally not a review-asking type, but as I Am King only once a year (and it's raining), I figure I can request politely and you can just call it a birthday present :]

If Glee is in one of the boxes on my coffee table, you will be the first to know.

* * *

Chapter 5: "I prefer to think of it as 'Freelance Agent'."

"You ready?"

"Please, I was born ready. Did you bring the name tag?"

"Like I'd forget. Here—don't poke at it though; if your name peels off, you'll be Dr. Allison for the rest of the day."

"Dr. Allison? You still wish I was a girl, don't you?"

"You're high maintenance enough without a uterus—if you were a girl, I'd have piano-wired you in your sleep by now."

"Thanks a lot. How do I look? Don't even answer that, I look fabulous."

"Of course you do. I'd lose the scarf though, it's a little too Sassy Gay Friend."

"…you're right. Oh Dear Givenchy, how did I miss that?"

"Breathe, Harvey Milk. If you pass out on me now, someone's gonna notice and we'll be over before we even get started."

"Right. Breathing. I'm calm."

"_Base, do you copy? This is Team Gothic Wheels reporting to Base, over."_

"Artie, that hasn't gotten any less stupid."

"_I maintain that code names only add to the awesomeness of the mission."_

"Homeboy, shut up and give Tina the headset."

"_You're a buzzkill. Hang on."_

"_Okay, it's me."_

"Hey babygirl, we're ready to roll on our end. Do we have a target?"

"_There's a thirty-something woman in a green sweater set having some trouble in the Ladies' section. She's about fifty feet to the left of the dressing rooms."_

"Did she just say 'sweater set'? We may be too late."

"All right, we're on it. Thanks Tina."

Mercedes turned to look at Kurt. "It's Showtime," she informed him, straightening his newly-freed collar. "Let's do this."

Sixty seconds later, Kurt strode confidently through the aisles, adjusting the earpiece of his headset. The woman was right where Tina said she'd be, although her confused expression was more pronounced than he'd been led to believe: she was holding up a pair of black, long-sleeved shirts and was biting her lip with such intensity that Kurt was afraid she might draw blood.

Time to be a superhero.

"I'd go with the one on the left, definitely," he said kindly, trying not to startle his prey. "The blue trim around the collar highlights the undertones in your complexion—that's a very good thing."

The woman blinked in surprise, blushing slightly. "Oh," she said, smiling shyly, "thank you."

Kurt smiled beatifically. "No problem," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "My name is Kurt, and I'll be your personal shopper this afternoon. So, what else are we looking for today?"

* * *

It had all started a week ago.

"I just don't understand it," Kurt was saying to Mercedes as they waited in line with Artie and Tina at the movie theatre. "I mean, I know that this town is full of idiots, but it's like they've taken over lately. Everywhere I go, there are rude, badly dressed morons in desperate need of both a makeover and a couple rounds of etiquette classes."

He shook his head in distaste. "I'm starting to have nightmares about beer bellies and bad home perms."

Mercedes clicked her tongue in sympathy. "That does suck," she agreed. "Just wait until you get your show on TLC. They'll be falling all over themselves to follow your advice."

Artie nodded along. "Or you could always just get a job where they pay you to boss people around for a living," he offered.

Tina brightened. "Yeah," she chimed in, "like a life coach. Or a stage mom!"

Kurt rolled his eyes. He highly doubted anyone would take life advice from the gay kid who got thrown in the dumpster on a regular basis. Even if he was the town's reigning fashion expert.

However, fashion advice…

"Guys," he said, with a smile that made Artie shudder slightly with dread. "I have a really bad idea."

* * *

Half an hour after helping the woman—whose name was Sarah—pick her black shirt, the two of them had managed to put together three outfits for her upcoming 15th High School reunion.

"The shoes you're wearing will be fine for Friday and Sunday," Kurt advised, "and you'll wear sneakers to the picnic, of course. But you'll need something devastating and flashy for Saturday night. Do you have anything in silver or red? Preferably between 1.5 and 3 inches?"

Sarah nodded. "I have a pair of red heels I've only worn a few times," she reported, earning a delighted smile.

"Excellent," Kurt praised. "I think you're all set. Now have a great time, and remember what I said about the makeup."

"Waterproof, emphasis on the eyes, carry powder and concealer in case of emergencies," she recited. Kurt felt his heart warming. He loved the eager to please.

Kurt watched Sarah go, heading toward the register with her small pile of clothing. With a final, contented sigh, he ducked behind a rack of garish prom dresses and reached for the slim, black walkie-talkie clipped behind his right hip. Holding down the grey button on the side, he adjusted the mouthpiece of his headset. "Mercedes, Tina," he murmured quietly, scanning the area for any store employees.

His earbud crackled to life. _"How did it go?"_ Tina asked, sounding nervous.

"Fabulously. What's wrong?" Tina's tone was making Kurt wary. If Mercedes or Artie had gotten caught…

"_Everything's fine." _Mercedes. _"She's just freaked out because Mister Rogers is on a coffee run and the makeup counter ladies keep looking at her like they're plotting something."_

Kurt snorted, glad he had control over what the girls could hear him say or do. Too bad he couldn't use it to communicate with everyone all the time.

"_They're scary looking!" _Tina was defending herself. _"They look like they're made of plastic, and they're wearing more blush than all the Cheerios combined!" _

Kurt flinched. That was a _lot_ of blush.

"_Whatever," _Mercedes dismissed. _"If you get kidnapped, I'll come save you. Eventually. Kurt, are you ready for your next victim?" _

Kurt put a hand over his heart. "Client, not victim," he stressed. "And yes. Who do we have?"

* * *

Three hours later, Kurt was still on a roll. He'd helped a man pick out a dress for his wife, a college kid pick out shirts and ties for an internship, an older couple select coordinated outfits for their niece's wedding, a harried mom choose vacation clothing for her three children, and had teamed up with a young mother to convince her ten year old daughter that ruffles and sequins in the same outfit was simply too much. Along the way, he had distributed countless hair, makeup, and accessorizing tips. And not once had his advice been brushed off, blatantly ignored, or scoffed at. People loved him. People _listened _to him.

He loved the mall.

"Gothic Wheels, who has the walkie-talkie?" he asked his headset, scanning the junior's section for any potential targets. It was fairly empty, with only a couple of shoppers picking through the racks.

"Tina, Artie," he tried again. No answer.

Kurt frowned. "Mercedes?" he tried. The last time he had talked to anyone had been ten minutes ago, when Tina had sent him after the thoroughly bedazzled fifth grader. Mercedes had just left to hit the ladies room, which was on the other end of the mall near the food court. Even if she'd gone straight there and back, she'd still probably be out of range.

That didn't explain Artie and Tina's literal radio silence, though. They ought to have been standing by in Home Furnishings, waiting for his call. Kurt turned around with a sigh to go track them down.

And walked straight into three adults, two of whom were dressed in mall security uniforms.

"This is the kid," the stringy looking man in front declared, pointing at Kurt. Kurt eyed the name tag—Paul, who was apparently the assistant manager. _Shit_.

The mall cops, a stocky blonde man and a petite Hispanic woman whose bored-yet-annoyed expression reminded him eerily of Santana, stepped forward. "You the one impersonating a personal shopper?" the man asked, smiling humorlessly.

Kurt gave him a shaky smile in return. He hadn't planned on getting caught, so he hadn't planned a cover story in advance.

"I don't suppose I can interest you in a makeover?" he offered hesitantly.

* * *

Kurt had been sitting for an hour, and he was not happy. His chair was stiff and uncomfortable, and there was a spring poking through the upholstery. His body was stiff and aching from trying not to shift in his seat—his pants were D&G, and he _really _did not want the spring tearing a hole in them. Plus, it had been a long day's effort, and he was hungry. Yeah. he was not happy.

An annoying, ticking clock that was five minutes fast. Paltry air circulation and no windows to distract himself with. _Olive green walls_ that clashed horribly with the industrial tiling of the floor and ceiling. And they'd taken his phone. Kurt sighed.

He hated the Mall Security Office.

Finally, eons later, the door opened. It was the female security guard. "You're free to go now, Kurt," she told him. "Your stepbrother just arrived to pick you up."

Kurt quickly masked his confusion before it could show on his face (he didn't want it to stick that way). He technically didn't have a stepbrother, but the only person who the name could possibly apply to was—

"Hey." Finn Hudson stuck his head around the door frame, a good foot and a half about the woman's. "Are you okay? Mercedes called me."

Kurt sighed, standing up. "I'm all right," he promised, stretching his stiff muscles. "I'm guessing I probably won't be allowed back in the mall anytime soon, though. Will I?" he asked the guard, adding just a hint of puppy dog eyes to his contrite expression.

She pursed her lips slightly. "Well, you didn't steal anything or cause any real trouble, and you don't have a juvenile record," she rattled off. "So we're letting you off with a warning this time. But I'm telling you now, kid—pull another stunt like this one, and you're shopping on eBay until you graduate. Clear?"

Kurt gulped. "Clear. Thank you," he eked out. eBay was fine for some things, but it was not mall-interchangeable.

Finn held his tongue while Kurt retrieved his phone, apologized profusely and believably, and was escorted out of the office. As soon as the muted glass door closed behind them, however, the dam broke.

"What the hell just happened? Mercedes called me and told me you got arrested by the mall police and that I needed to pretend we were related and come save you or they'd send you to, like, _actual _prison! What did you do?"

Kurt held out a hand. "Slow down, I've been under heavy fluorescent lighting all day and I have a headache," he commanded, and Finn reluctantly obeyed.

Kurt sighed. "Mercedes…may have exaggerated the seriousness of the situation," he explained delicately. "I didn't break any laws, or even do anything that bad, really. I like to think that I was a benevolent force of nature unfairly maligned in this state of affairs, actually."

Seeing Finn's look of utter confusion, Kurt sighed again. "Nevermind. I really appreciate you coming to my rescue, though," he said gratefully. "I doubt they would have let me go without a family member coming to collect me, and having to tell my dad that I was being held captive by the _mall cops_…ugh. It's just too humiliating. Thank you for sparing me further embarrassment."

Finn reached out a hand, hesitating momentarily before clapping Kurt lightly on the shoulder. "It's okay," he said, discomfited. "I'm glad you guys called me. How long were you in there?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Over an hour," he responded. "It was excruciating."

Finn absently rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortably worried. "Kurt, uh…I mean…shit, this is awkward," he broke off. He tried again. "What I mean is…none of the other prisoners, they didn't, like, _try anything_ with you, did they?"

It took every ounce of self control that Kurt possessed not to burst out laughing. But Finn seemed legitimately concerned that a hardened criminal had tried to taint Kurt's innocence, so he did his best to keep a straight face. "No, nothing like that," he said reassuringly, "I'm fine."

Finn let out an enormous sigh of relief. "Oh thank God," he exhaled. "I wasn't sure what I'd do."

Kurt reached up and patted the boy on the back. "You're a good brother, Finn Hudson," he appraised.

Finn reached over and ruffled his hair slightly, making Kurt cry out in alarm and indignation. "I'm glad you're not in jail," Finn said seriously, as Kurt frantically clawed at his hair, trying to put it back in place. "I don't think you'd last very long. Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, "I can buy you one of those weird salads with the seeds that you like, if you want. We're supposed to be meeting Mercedes at the food court anyway."

Kurt brightened at the idea, and happily trailed after Finn as he strode through the atrium.

* * *

While Finn bought his salad, Mercedes gave him a bone crushing hug and explained how Artie and Tina had gotten caught only a few minutes before he had, right as Mercedes was returning from the restroom.

"So many people had mentioned 'the sweet young man with the headset' at the register, apparently," she explained, "so they were on the lookout for anyone rocking an earpiece. Artie played it totally chill though—he got all outraged that security would target a young professional in a wheelchair for having a headset—"How am I supposed to move and talk to clients at the same time without one?"—and then, right when they were practically peeing themselves waiting for him to pull a Rachel and threaten to sue everyone, he snarls that he and his PCA—what does that even mean?—have to go because it's time to change his catheter bag."

She shook her head. "And I am telling you right now, I don't even want to know if that was the one part of his bullshit story that's actually true," she said emphatically. "But Tina said we could all come over once the Incredible Hulk busted you out of the mall slammer. And speaking of which, if your boy toy doesn't come back with an extra salad, you are totally sharing."

As the trio left the mall fifteen minutes later—Kurt with his salad and a second fork, Finn with two burgers and an extra-large order of fries—Kurt couldn't keep the smile off of his face. He had made a stunning debut as a fashion consultant, coordinated a low-tech but high-style mission that would make a charming anecdote in his future biographies, and he had been heroically rescued by his best friend and almost-stepbrother. And he had a strawberry walnut salad with flaxseed and lite raspberry vinaigrette.

Oh yeah. Kurt Hummel, diva extraordinaire, loved the mall.


	6. Chapter 6

Now with a sequel!

_Uninvited Criticisms:_ _Or, Why Kurt Hummel Is a Terrifying Human Being on Black Friday, and Blaine Anderson is Insane For Loving Him Anyway._


End file.
